


Ritornare

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M, post-rehab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks before James moved back in, Kirk warned Lars, “It’s going to be hard, for both of you. He’s going to be a different man, and I don’t know if you can handle that…” Post-rehab, SKOM era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritornare

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd Danish. I wrote these as drabbles in the past and meshed them together into a new, cohesive, longer story. Kind of sappy? Sorry in advance. Inspired by Ritornare and Primavera by Ludovico Einaudi.

A few weeks before James moved back in, Kirk warned Lars, “It’s going to be hard, for both of you. He’s going to be a different man, and I don’t know if you can handle that…” 

The first week seemed like the days of old, like they never separated back in 2001. He found James sitting in his studio, playing the guitar in the morning. By midday, he tinkered outside in the garage, hands and clothes splattered with dirt and oil. In the afternoon, they enjoyed quiet dinners, little chit chat and watched a movie or a show. They still slept at different times too: James first in bed, well before midnight; he himself the last, hours past twelve. 

There were not many awkward moments between them. Learning to manage personal and professional relationships seemed fine at first. They started a routine again – up, work, home, TV, bed – like any other working couple. James sometimes did the dishes. Lars sometimes did the laundry. James liked doing the yard work when their maid wasn’t around. Lars organized and dusted some of the rooms. 

Sometimes, though, those awkward moments came up. “James?”

From a foot away, James turned around from where he sat on the backyard porch. 

Lars stood inside the kitchen, fingers on the sliding door’s handle. “I finished lunch. Want me to bring it here?” His smile felt awkward. “It’s a nice day…”

James said, “Sure,” and turned back to the view of a clear San Francisco skyline.

“Great.” His fingers let go of the handle. They twitched at his sides, his mouth forming voiceless words – until he gave up with a sigh and said, “Be right back.” 

Lars felt the distance grow over time. Sometimes, after James’s sponsor meetings, he acted better, like his new self, with hints of the old him coming through. Kinder, more open, funny in that dry way Lars came to love, unabashed compassion – this was the James Lars could talk to and get to know again. Sometimes, though, James was unbearable – when he was all of his old self, with the ice-cold shoulder, the distance, ignoring of all Lars’s attention and questions, and not fighting back. Not even yelling at him. Just forgetting he was there. Those were the days when time felt sluggish, oozing along with all the doubt that crept into Lars’s mind. When Kirk’s warning came to mind. 

“You’ve never been through rehab,” Kirk had said. “You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve been able to handle James’s issues in the past, but you obviously know this is a new James, and with a new James comes new issues – some you’ve definitely never dealt with before. It might be too much for you. No matter how much you love him – and I mean this sincerely, Lars, as a friend – you are not the most patient, understanding person in the world. The way you reacted to James not speaking to you for months, and then the way you acted around him and treated him once he came back, all testifies to your impatience and lack of understanding.” 

That was when Lars believed all the doubts. When the thoughts came of you’re not going to make it, this isn’t going to work, you can’t do it, you know you can’t do it, but Lars fought. He punched his way through his thoughts and forced himself to be patient and to understand. Kirk was wrong. Kirk underestimated him. Everyone underestimated him. _I can be understanding, I can be patient, I love James, dammit, I can do this,_ but it was so hard. It was so hard on those days, when he treaded around the house and avoided James to stop himself from lashing out like the caged tiger he felt inside. He wanted to push James, slap James, yell at James to _pay attention_ , to _listen_ , to _talk to me, you asshole, I’m here for you, why won’t you fucking talk to me, don’t you trust me, what the hell’s wrong with you, I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not my fault, why do you keep punishing me_ – and that’s when he had to stop and remember Kirk’s words, and consequently, his own father’s words. 

“Do not attack a caged bird when it is injured, my son,” Torben had said, two months into their restarted relationship. “He will never learn to fly again otherwise. Let him come to you. Let him trust you.”

It felt hopeless. The little things he gave James – from touches and kisses and homemade dinners – to the big things – all that distance – didn’t seem enough. Awkward moments soon prevailed over the ‘normal’ moments. And it was so obvious why. 

James didn’t trust him.

_Why do I keep fighting?_ He stared at James across the outside patio table, a tray of turkey sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade between them. _Why don’t you fight too?_

James’s blue eyes flicked up from his plate and looked right at him.

Lars managed a small smile.

His stomach flipped at the shy, boyish grin James gave back.

Three months in, Lars found his patience paying off. James came to him more often. Talked to him about things he had no idea about, or things he had little care for, like cars, sports, graffiti art, or a country song he heard on the radio and _man it’s so cool you have to hear it._ They were James’s ways of fighting back, of trying too. 

In turn, Lars learned two signs he never knew about the old James: when James needed time alone, and when he needed someone around him. It helped understand the awkward moments more, and ended some of them faster too. 

Then, on a night they fell asleep around the same time, Lars woke up to the bed creaking, shaking and moving back and forth. 

He thought, _It’s an earthquake_ , until he heard James’s soft sob.

Lars sat up onto his elbows and turned to his side. 

The full moonlight seeped through the parted window curtains, giving James grayed-out skin, a black silhouette and large shadow that fell over the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his curved, naked back turned to him, neck bowed and a hand over his face. 

Heavy, tempered breathing.

A harsh, wet sigh.

James sniffled and wiped his fingers across his eyes and down his left cheek. 

Lars pushed the sheets off him. 

Slowly, he scooted across the bed. 

James jerked his hand from his face down to his thigh. It curled into a fist. 

Lars knelt behind James’s back, knees on either side of his hips. 

He reached out to touch—and stopped, his fingers hovering over the skin. 

James’s fist shook. 

Another sniffle. 

Lars laid his hands down, finger by finger, palms last. 

He gave James’s shoulders a gentle rub once, twice. 

More heavy, wet, labored breathing. 

Another loud, drawn-out sigh. Lars’s hands rose and fell with James’s hunched back. 

He closed his eyes. 

Then: “I’m sorry,” James said.

Lars slid his palms down James’s shoulders to his biceps and up again. 

More breathing. More labored than before.

“I’m an asshole.”

He whispered against his ear, “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“I can’t…”

Lars pressed his chest to James’s back, curled himself over him. His hands reached down to James’s forearms. Over his shoulder, he saw both James’s fists laying on his knees, clenching and unclenching. 

He ran one hand down to a fist, brushing his fingers across the knuckles. 

The corner of his face pressed against James’s neck. His nose brushed James’s cool, wet cheek. 

“Can’t what?” Lars whispered. 

“Can’t do it.” A sniffle, and then, “I’m not strong enough.” 

He rested his hand over James’s. 

Slowly, James’s hand pulled away—and turned around under his. 

Palms met. Their fingers twined and squeezed hard. 

“I want a drink Lars.” James’s voice wavered and cracked as his body trembled and he hissed, “I want one _so fucking badly._ ” 

Lars slid his arm over James’s cool chest, his chin laying over the crook of James’s neck, his cheek pressed against James’s. 

James’s other hand went to his head. Fingers slid into the scalp, playing with his hair. 

“I want to give in,” he whispered. “I want to feel normal again. I want to go out with people and feel accepted and not treated like a lab rat all the time. But I’m supposed to be different now. I’m not supposed to want this, dammit. It’s like nothing’s changed. I haven’t changed. That monster is still inside, Lars. That same demon, whispering in my head to do all the things I shouldn’t. Like go out with the boys and go drinking, go take those pills that will make my back feel better, or...” 

“Or what?”

He smoothed his hand over Lars’s hair. 

“Or leave you.”

It flopped back to his thigh.

“Because you deserve someone better. Someone stronger.”

Lars pulled his hand out of the clasp with James’s. 

Both his arms wrapped tight around James’s torso, a hand on his bicep, a hand on his shoulder, and he squeezed him hard. He pressed a kiss to his neck, to his cheek, to his temple, and back to his neck, lingering there as he squeezed his torso once more. 

His lips and nose rubbed the skin of James’s neck. 

He kissed the skin again.

James’s body slowly relaxed in the next kiss. 

He watched James’s hands unfurl on his knees. Heard his breathing temper out. 

A soft sigh.

James pulled to the side—

Lars clenched his arms tight, holding him in place. 

“Lars—”

He lifted his head and a hand up, pressing his fingers to James’s lips. Their eyes finally met, and Lars stared right at him, right at them, at the glossiness and the grey skin and wet cheeks and said, “Let me speak.”

James stared. 

Lars’s fingers skipped over James’s lips, down his cheeks, resting on his collarbones. 

Slowly, James nodded. 

Lars looked away and leaned back, his cheek returning against James’s. 

His lips touched the shell of James’s ear. 

He took a long breath through his nose. 

On the exhale, his warm breath blew back onto his face. 

Against that skin, Lars whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know, James. No matter what that voice says, no matter what that monster makes you feel, you are the most beautiful, strongest person I have ever met in my life, and I am so, so proud of you for what you have accomplished. You should never, ever feel guilty when you feel like this – and never, ever push me away, because of it. You’re a human being. You’re not infallible. You will make mistakes, like I will make mistakes, but don’t think I will abandon you because of it. I’m here for you. I’m not ashamed of you. I will never be ashamed of you, or disappointed in you…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Fuck’s sake, James, I love you. There is nothing you can do to make me leave you, or hate you, or think otherwise of you, no matter how hard you or anyone else tries. Got it?”

James sniffled loud. He hiccupped in Lars’s hold. 

Lars ran a hand up and down James’s sternum, through the chest hair. 

Fingers weaved into Lars’s hair again. 

He kissed James’s cheek again, the skin wet under his lips. 

In a fluid move, James broke out of Lars’s hold, grabbing one of his arms and dragging him from behind and onto his lap. Lars helped, moving off the bed and straddling his legs, arms wrapping around his shoulders. 

They met in a long, open-mouthed kiss that James controlled, a hand in Lars’s hair, a hand resting on the small of Lars’s back. 

When the kiss ended, their eyes closed, foreheads pressed together and noses brushing.

Lars cupped James’s neck in his hands. His thumbs rested on the base of his chin. 

“Jeg elsker dig, min skat,” he whispered. “Min smukke. Du er ikke alene. Jeg er her. Jeg har ikke tænkt mig nogen steder. Jeg er her for evigt.” Lars kissed him, a long, closed-lip kiss, and when he leaned back, he let loose a soft sniffle and a broken whisper, “Kan du høre mig, James? Jeg er her for evigt.” He squeezed James’s face. “Du vil aldrig være alene igen.”

“Lars…”

He quieted James with another open-mouthed kiss, one Lars controlled this time, his hands weaving into James’s hair, their torsos pressing up against each other. 

They parted as one, leaning back and opening their eyes, and Lars smiled as James did, taking in his wet cheeks, his glossy eyes and his red lips, how the grey of his skin looked healthier now, how much _better_ he looked -- like the boy he met and fell in love with at eighteen, but with the confidence and peace of the man he was today. 

“Lars... I wish… I mean, what did—”

“Later.” He leaned back in. “I’ll tell you later.”

The bed squeaked as they fell backwards, Lars settling over James. An hour later, James settled back into sleep, in the comfort and safety of Lars’s arms. 

In the morning, Lars woke first, pulling James’s robe off from the floor. He went to his office, scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and brought it back into the bedroom, leaving it on James’s nightstand.

He pressed a kiss to James’s forehead, smiling at his gentle snores for a moment, before heading downstairs to make breakfast for two. 

And when James awoke, he found the meaning of Lars’s words waiting for him: 

_I love you, my darling. My beautiful. You are not alone. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here forever. Can you hear me, James? I'm here forever. You will never be alone again._


End file.
